A continuation from this mini fic - a little something where Dean is possessed by Abaddon.
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"Please, oh God please no... My name is Martha, I have a 12-year-old daughter, I- I'm a paediatric nurse, I'm a good person I'm a good person, please!"
She couldn't stop herself from sobbing out those last words; she was terrified and she was desperate. And she was searching for a way not to die.
The man standing before her cocked his head to the side, a smile stretched wide across his face. There was a warmth to his eyes that contradicted the malicious intent that smile conveyed.
"Oh Dean, do you hear that?", he said, keeping his eyes firmly on Martha's face, "She's playing our favourite song, how sweet."
Martha found herself pausing her breath, unable for a moment to take in air. Was there a second man here, one she hadn't noticed yet? She shot the most fleeting of glances to her side to give herself the mere half second she dared to look for the presence of another before fixing her sights back on the man in front of her. Shaking, she managed a whispered, cracked "Who's Dean?" Perhaps a conversation of sorts might see her survive this.
The man crouched down closer to Martha, their faces inches from each other. He raised his right hand to her cheek and rested his palm against it, gently stroking her skin with his thumb. His gaze had been fixed on the movement, but now it shifted to look Martha in the eyes again. A look of incredulous amusement had lit up his face as he breathed out a single chortle. "Why, I am of course!"
Martha processed this for a moment and realised this was not a man who was in his right state of mind, not capable of being reasoned with, not capable of being bargained with; she knew these would be her last moments alive.
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Abaddon made sure to fix her gaze on the whimpering cattle kneeling in front of her. She wasn't going to let Dean miss a second of this. He would look into her eyes and see the light behind them fade, see the life still yet to be lived, that should have been lived, disappear. Those future memories that should have been created and carried with the soul to create part of life after life, never would be.
And that will be all down to you Dean, to momma's blunt little instrument.
"I'm a good person I'm a good person." The pitiful beast was sobbing now.
"Oh Dean, do you hear that? She's playing our favourite song, how sweet!"
Abaddon knelt down to be face to face with the crying woman. She guided Dean's right hand to stroke the sodden cheek, smiling at the significance of the gesture and at Dean knowing all too well what she was doing.
Abaddon then grabbed at the woman's coat collar with Dean's left hand and pulled out a blade from under his jacket with his right. She laughed inwardly; her meatsuit was trying to stop her and she revelled in and savoured every moment of it. He tried to fight against his hand's forced grip on the blade's handle, to stop the motion of his arm as it brought the knife to the woman's throat. But Abaddon was too strong for him and he watched his own hands butcher the innocent woman before him.
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Not that one, not that one...
It was a memory that Dean had tried to bury deep. Thirty years under the knives, hooks, razors, and bare hands of one of Hell's most creative and he couldn't any more. He just couldn't. He had stood there watching as she was dragged onto the rack, hands and feet hooked down. Alistair had handed him the blade and gestured at him to go forth. And as Dean had approached her, this nameless other, she had begged. Pleaded with him. Screamed at him not to do this, to show mercy.
And it was the most beautiful aria he had ever heard.
The melody of it, he had never heard a thing so sweet nor likely ever would again. Because the voice crying out in the sulphurous heat of the pit, that voice of terror, of desperation, wasn't his. Three decades prior he had screamed (for Sam, John, for God), screamed until his throat had bled, until no more sound could be made. And now the sound was someone else's. He had breathed that in, held it within him so that it couldn't escape, so it could stay with him always. And he had wanted to thank the woman. For not being him. But he couldn't bring himself to speak, to corrupt the echo of the voice that wasn't his. So he had raised his hand and rested his palm against the woman's cheek, thumb stroking it. And then he had torn into her with blade, with hands, with no remorse.
When Abaddon found this memory, Dean wanted to close his eyes to shield against it, to shut her out. But he couldn't. When Abaddon found the woman in the street who bore a devastating resemblance to the soul he first tore into in the pit, he wanted to scream out at her to run away. But his words could not break free. And as Abaddon re-enacted the breaking of the first seal, in all its vicious, bloody glory, Dean realised the full horror of his situation. In Hell, ten years under Alistair's tutorship saw Dean nearly lose his humanity. His soul, however, had been forever tainted and corrupted. How long before his '90% crap', gutter soul was lost this time?